


Long Live The King

by Curtez



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidlock, M/M, Prince!lock, princelock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curtez/pseuds/Curtez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm John." he smiled, extending his hand. Sherlock politely shook it, but didn't get a chance to respond. The blonde came closer to him again, and whispered: "Do you know where the dungeons are?"</p><p>Prince Sherlock is only ten when he meets John for the first time; turns out not all the other kids are as dull as he'd imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Partially based on some of Emillu's wonderful princelock fanart. You can find her [here](http://www.emillu.tumblr.com/)

When you're a kid, you have this whole different notion of the world around you, and it's built mostly on innocence, naivety and a lack of general experience in life. The result is a whole bunch of 'firsts', not all remembered at an older age. This notion is gradually lost as time goes by, which often causes childhood memories to become sort of a blur, although there're always those few moments that stick in the back of your head and accompany you for life.

Sherlock's childhood was a very privileged one in some aspects - living in a castle and receiving the best of education isn't something people tend to complain about - but it also lacked things that no kid should ever have to grow up without. One of those things was a mother. 

Now, Sherlock has always had the most remarkable memory, but not even he would be able to remember a woman who was only with him for his first few days. Violet Holmes had went terribly ill shortly after the birth of her second son, and died when Sherlock was merely two weeks old. Yes, he still had a father, who loved him very much; he just forgot to show it every once in a while. After his wife's passing, the king had become bitter, and that was the only version of him that Sherlock had ever known - only Mycroft had had the privilege to hold on to the memory of a more loving father and their dear mother. 

One of the few occasions Mr Holmes ever showed the slightest trace of affection towards either of their sons was when he came back from a long trip (which happened quite often), and came into Sherlock's room when he was deep asleep, placing a tired kiss on the boy's forehead. Except he wasn't always deep asleep. What his father didn't know was that he regularly stayed up way past his bedtime to make experiments with whatever he could find in the kitchen and in the garden, to read books that would make any other kid his age die of boredom, or to practice the violin inconveniently loud. And Sherlock often took the opportunity to do these things when his father was away, rushing back to bed whenever he heard footsteps. 

His father's kisses were one of Sherlock's first memories, and he remembers the tiniest details. The sound of footsteps, as silent as the chubby old man could manage, against the marble floor. The scents of his many different perfumes, each one memorized by smell, name, and frequency of use. The ever-changing length of his beard, through which young Sherlock could often deduce his father's current emotional state.

But apart from those precious moments, Mr Holmes was a man who strongly believed that discipline was the single most important thing when it came to raising his children. Sherlock, when growing up, was much closer to his older brother than to their father, although they would eventually drift apart in adult life. Mycroft was the one who introduced him to John, and even though he never said it, Sherlock was most thankful for that.

The thing with the Watson family was that, many years before Sherlock was born, almost every royal family from the neighboring kingdoms had signed a peace agreement among each other that included providing shelter and lodging to whoever had come upon any complications that precluded them from staying in their own kingdom. In the case of the Watsons, that complication was a massive riot that had turned into a revolution, eventually resulting in the entire castle being set on fire. The Holmes family was the one that lived the closest from them, and probably the only ones with a castle big enough to house the enormous Watson lineage and their hundreds of servants.

There were many kids - John had four brothers, three sisters and countless cousins - and Sherlock did his best to avoid them. He woke up every morning wishing that the king of the intruders would solve whatever problem they had that was stopping them from going back to where they came from, so they could leave him and his family alone, in peace and quiet. But he stopped thinking like that in one cold rainy morning, when laziness was heavy in the air, specially in both Sherlock and Mycroft's favorite room: a small and cozy reading lounge, with dozens of books and the best fireplace in the whole castle. This private library of theirs was quite hidden away, so they were hardly ever disturbed, and that's what they liked: isolation. Well, most of the times, at least.

Every once in a while, Mycroft would open the window and let in an old friend, that eventually became a bit more than a friend. Even though Sherlock was only ten at the time (seven years younger than his brother), he knew better than to say anything to their father. And Mycroft was quite aware of that; he had never asked him to keep it a secret and he knew he didn't have to. Sherlock did come to use the information to blackmail his brother once or twice, but it was nothing but a threat - he could never have brought himself to actually do it. It had all started when Sir Gregory Lestrade came to the castle to deliver a message from the army, and was instructed to go to that little library to find the elder prince, since the king was away. He was invited in for tea and, before you notice, he was carefully calculating the days the king wouldn't be home so that, whenever he came to report, he would have to go find the prince. It took ages before any of them actually made a move, considering that a knight could never have a future with a king, but ever since it happened, his visits had become more frequent and more secret.

And in that lazy morning, Mycroft opened the window to greet a particularly soaked Greg with a kiss on the lips.

"It's raining like hell out there." the redhead rebuked him after closing the window, and rushed to cover the freezing knight (who wasn't currently in shiny armor) with a blanket. "You didn't have to come."

"Well, I wanted to come." the other teased, gratefully accepting the blanket and sitting on his usual armchair, placed next to Mycroft's. "And how are you doing, kid? Have you solved the mystery of the missing cat already?"

"Oh yes, in a heartbeat." he replied, without looking away from the book in his hands.

"And?"

"I wouldn't eat the beef tonight if I were you."

"Lovely."

So the crown prince and the knight got a couple of books for themselves, and they each sat on their separate chairs, reading and casually holding hands as they did so. After a couple of hours of the coziest combination of silence, the sound of rain and the crackling noises that came from the fireplace, there was a knock on the door. 

"Wonderful" Mycroft grumbled, standing up. "Nowhere is safe."

He answered the door and closed it behind him, taking care that Greg would not be seen. He came back less than a minute later.

"Apparently, my father wishes to speak to me." he said to no one in particular, then turned to Greg. "I'm sorry, but god knows how long that will take; you should probably go."

"No, but- there's something I have to talk to you about first."

"Why didn't you tell me when you got here?"

"I think... I wanted to postpone it for as long as I could."

Mycroft's eyebrows turned to a frown as he told Sherlock to go read outside, without taking his eyes off of Greg's.

"But I'm still picking my next book."

"Then pick fast" he snarled between his teeth.

"You can't just rush into these things, I am about to dedicate hours of my attention to a certain topic, and i expect it to..." 

But Mycroft took his brother by his arm and led him out of the room, stumbling into John in the hallway. Before anyone could apologize, Mycroft pushed Sherlock towards the confused prince. "See? Someone your age. You're one of the Watson kids, aren't you? The youngest. You two even have something in common to discuss; neither of you is ever going to ascend to the throne. How does that feel?" There was no answer, and the two children just exchanged a few astonished glances, trying to figure out the situation. 

"Well, then? Go... socialize." he said, doing a subtle "shoo" movement with his hands, before returning to the library and closing the door, leaving a socially awkward Sherlock and a confused John alone in the hallway.

After a few more moments of uncomfortable silence, Sherlock straightened his clothes and turned to John.

"I apologize for my brother; he can be rather brute at times. Although I'm afraid I have no intention of engaging in a conversation with you."

John stared at him for a moment before replying. "You talk weird." And he narrowed his eyes, getting closer to Sherlock's face, as if to examine him. "You know, like the grown ups."

The pitch haired prince blinked a few times in confusion, wondering if every other kid was like that. 

"I'm John." he smiled, extending his hand. Sherlock politely shook it, but he didn't get a chance to respond. The blonde came closer to him again, and whispered: "Do you know where the dungeons are?"

"Dungeons?"

"Yes, doesn't this castle have them? In our old castle, we had a whole lot of secret entries and dark stairways that led to a bunch of empty cells and torture chambers, unused for decades! You know, before it was all burnt to the ground. It was my favorite thing to do back at home, and I've been looking for passages ever since I got here!"

"Hmm." Sherlock was suddenly interested. He had just read a book the previous week about the structures of castles, that had an entire chapter dedicated to rooms and underground halls that were kept in secret. He had been meaning to go look for them one day, and what harm could come from doing it with someone who already had some experience in the matter? "I suppose I could help you." he announced, and started walking through the long hallways, headed to the stairs that led to the ground floor. John quickly caught up with him, following him around.

"So you know where it is?"

"No, but i believe i can find it."

"But this castle is huge! Have you always lived here?"

"Is the talking thing really necessary?"

"Alright, alright, I'll shut up."

And he did. For about twenty seconds.

"What if we get caught?"

And Sherlock just rolled his eyes, letting John talk to himself as he tried to focus and remember anything he had ever seen that could have seemed suspicious, that could lead them anywhere. If there was a hidden entrance, it would be somewhere no one ever goes, and no one ever questions. He suddenly stopped walking.

"Yes, of course", he muttered.

"What? Do you know where it is?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"..."

"The trophy room, John! Who ever goes to the trophy room? No one, it's always empty! And nobody ever questions it, why would they? The only people who would go there would be the servants, to do the dusting, but if the king is the only one who knows about the location of the dungeon, he could easily tell them to leave the room alone and say it's for sentimental reasons. It wouldn't be in any of the guest rooms, because they're all being used by your family, and this way, he doesn't have to hide an entire room. Because trust me, I've been up and down this castle for years, and I would know if there was an extra room in any of the visible stories. If there is a secret passage that leads to an underground floor with mysterious dungeons, than it's got to be there!"

And he scampered off, with John right behind him. The trophy room wasn't one of the big halls held by the castle, but it was still pretty majestic, something like their private little museum. Enormous paintings decorated almost every inch of the walls, and sculptures stood scattered across the floor or were hung from the ceiling. Everything there was quite tall, so it could seem a bit like a labyrinth for a couple of children. 

"Well" John announced, "we better get started then. You're the smart one. What are we looking for?"

"Any irregularity in the walls or on the floor. Move things around if you have to, but be careful."

So they spent the next half hour checking everything they saw; a crack on the wall, a rip on the carpet, a crooked marble bust. Then Sherlock found something on the baseboard of the wall, next to a real size soldier sculpture, and called John.

"Where is it?" the blonde asked, kneeling next to Sherlock.

"There." he pointed.

"I don't see anything."

"You do see, but you don't observe." he said, and waited for John to realize what was different. "Oh, goodness, is everyone else that slow? Look at the dust pattern here... and here. This layer is thinner, see? It means someone recently touched it."

"But... If that really is the entrance to the dungeon... Does that mean that someone's been using it? Could there be prisoners down there?"

"Let's find out." And Sherlock pushed the wall - a three foot tall square of bricks began to roughly slid backwards, and John helped him push it till the end. A dark stairway was revealed, and the two kids smiled at each other in triumph.

"All we need now is some light" John advised, already climbing a marble pedestal to reach the torch that rested in a sconce on the wall.

"Careful! You'll break something!"

But John landed gracefully on his feet, holding the lit torch.

"See? I'm not as useless as you think."

"I don't..."

"Yeah you do. But I bet you're nice, deep down. Come on." he called, already with a foot on the first stair, but he turned to face Sherlock again. "I never got your..."

"The name is Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

If they weren't four feet tall, they would've had to bend over to walk down the stairs. They had been walking for a few minutes now, and the sense of smothering was growing deeper in their lungs. It was a very narrow corridor, and the raindrops that dripped from the ceiling reminded them of the opened air above their heads, blocked away by a few feet of stone. The boys were walking slowly, being careful not to slip on the wet steps, and if John hadn't remembered to get a torch, they wouldn't have been able to see an inch in front of their noses. 

"Does it usually take this long?" asked Sherlock, always looking at where he was stepping, once the stairs were inconveniently irregular. "Just to walk down the stairs?"

"They're not that long, we're the ones walking slowly. But don't worry, I think I see something." 

And, after a few more slippery steps, they did come across a seven feet tall wooden door. One of their main concerns was that they would might need to unlock a door or a gate, but that door wasn't closed at all - it was only ajar.

"Well, that doesn't make sense." said John, wondering whether he should push it or not. "Why would anyone go through that much trouble to hide a dungeon and not even bother closing a door?" 

"Maybe because whatever they're trying to keep inside is locked someway else."

Sherlock took the torch, stepped up and calmly pushed the door, slightly cringing at the creaking sound it made. They both went in, and the torch was only enough to enlighten the empty beginning of a stone hall. John soon realized what Sherlock was talking about, now that he could hear them too: chains. He started walking towards the distant sound, but Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?" he whispered scoldingly.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're about to go check out a convict dangerous enough to be locked away in a secret underground dungeon, in chains."

"Yeah. So? What did _you _come here for?"__

"Well, I was quite curious about the architecture, and whether the castle's dungeons were anything like the ones in my book-"

"The architecture?"

"Bloody awful job with the stairs, by the way. The infiltration-"

"Sherlock! You did not just come all the way down here to criticize the ceiling!" he whisper-shouted, coming loose from Sherlock's grip. "Come on, have an adventure! Unless... you're scared." he teased. 

"Fear is irrational." he replied haughtily.

"Good. You're coming, then." John decided, taking Sherlock by the wrist.

So they both started following the clanking sound of chains, as they got louder and louder. The light from the torch was starting to go out, and soon they could only see a couple of feet ahead of them.

"We can't take much longer, the light is fading." Sherlock pointed out, trying not to make it sound like there was another reason he wanted to turn around.

"Relax, we've been walking in a straight line since the beginning. Worst case scenario, we go back in the dark, following one of the walls. Now, if you're scared-"

"Shut up."

"Hey, I'm just saying-"

"No, really. Shut up. Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Exactly."

The clank of chains had completely stopped, and the only sound was of the boys' slightly heavy breathing.

"How do we know where he is now?" John asked, whispering as low as he could.

"We don't." 

They stayed in absolute silence for a moment, until the clanking noise came back all at once, louder and closer then either of them was prepared for. If that would've already been enough to make them jump, Sherlock's heart must have beaten out of his chest when a hand pulled him by the ankle, making him fall face first in the ground, and dragged him away from John. He screamed as he tried vainly to hold on to something, leaving the torch behind and getting pulled into the darkness. The hand eventually let go of him, and Sherlock managed to sit up, recoiling as fast as he could until his back hit a wall.

He just sat there huddled for a moment, panting and shaking. John called his name in the distance, but he didn't have the voice to respond. He heard something approaching and cringed at the feeling of someone's breath on his neck, as a hoarse voice whispered _long live the king_.

After that, he could hear the chains distancing and John approaching, kneeling next to him and raising whatever was left of the torch so he could see Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock! Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"N-no, I'm fine." he mumbled, leaning on the wall to pull himself up, but falling back on his knees the moment he did so. 

"You don't look fine." John reproved, helping him to his feet and putting the boy's arm around him. So they started to walk back to the stairway, always near a wall, in case of the torch going out, which only happened when they were almost by the door. When they got to the stairs, leaving the door they way they'd found it, John leaned against a wall and sighed. 

"This was all my fault, I'm sorry. If I hadn't forced you into going further-"

"It's fine."

"No it's not fine! You could have died back there!"

"Don't exaggerate; I was barely harmed."

"How can you be so calm about this?" he asked, trying to figure out where he should look at if he couldn't see a thing.

"I think it may not have been in vain."

"What do you mean?"

"The... convict. He said something. _Long live the king_."

"..."

"Don't you know the whole saying? It was first declared on the accession of Charles VII to the throne, in France: _Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi_."

"Do you just assume that every person you meet speaks French?"

"It means 'The king is dead. Long live the king.'"

"But the king is not dead."

"No, but... I think it might have been a warning. Or a threat." Sherlock suggested gloomily.

"Well, that bloke can't do much from down here. And are you sure we should even be taking him seriously? God knows how long he's been in this place; he could be just a nutter."

"Or he could have meant something and my father is in danger."

"...Oh. Right. But if that were true, why would he even tell you?" John asked, but then he heard footsteps - Sherlock was already climbing up the stairs. "Wait for me!"

When they finally saw daylight again, or at least as much daylight as you can see in a cloudy rainy afternoon, they carefully put the secret passage back where it was and walked out of the trophy room as if nothing had happened.

"Well" John started, "I guess I've seen enough of _that_ place for a lifetime."

"Same time tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, without looking at him.

"Oh god yes."

And then they just went on separate ways, each one heading for their small little corner of the castle. Sherlock's reasons to go back to the dungeon were clear on his mind - he wanted to find out whatever he could about the prisoner and make sure that his words meant nothing. But he didn't quite understand why John had agreed to go there again so promptly. The taste for adventure, perhaps? He did seem like the kind of people who just can't stand boredom - a bit like himself, he supposed.

Apart from the whole possible childhood trauma thing that had just happened, Sherlock was still processing the idea of John. He doesn't remember ever talking to another kid his age; the closest thing that came to his mind was when he first saw some of the children that came from the neighboring kingdom. He was dissecting a dead rat when he heard screams and ran to the window, just to see a bunch of kids randomly running, laughing and yelling. All Sherlock did was wonder what could possibly make them behave like that and then go back to his self-taught biology classes.

But after he had spent some time with John, he didn't think he was much like the boys whose idea of fun basically involved deliberately throwing themselves in a mud puddle and putting frogs on the girls' hair. And he had just got on the short list of people who had voluntarily spent more than an hour on Sherlock's company.

Still on that line of thought, he went back to the library to find a now alone Mycroft, sitting on the armchair next to the window and watching the rain with a blank expression. Sherlock picked a book and waited a while to say something, so he wouldn't seem too hasty.

"So," he started, sounding uninterested. "what did father wanted to talk to you about earlier?"

"Why do you ask?" his brother replied, still staring at the window.

"No reason, just wondering."

"You don't do small talk, Sherlock. What's on your mind?"

"Nothing. I've... got a bad feeling, that's all."

Mycroft gave him a glance, clearly unconvinced. 

"Only that he'll be going away for the week; some important business to attend to, as usual. And since we seem to be... _chatting_ now... how's John?"

Sherlock didn't bother to ask how his brother suddenly knew John's name - Mycroft had always had ways to find out about the things that interested him.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh please. You've spent less than three hours with him and i already sense an alteration in your mood. You so evidently care about him."

"What would be wrong if I did?"

"Take it from me, Sherlock." he advised, loosing the smirk he had on his face. "Caring is not an advantage."

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

It was raining the first time Mycroft and Greg kissed, and it was raining on the last.

It had been many months since they'd had first met, and Greg was using the army telegram excuse once again. He had got to the castle soaking wet, and was directed by the servants to the prince's whereabouts. Mycroft was, as usual, at the library, but Sherlock was taking his customary violin classes. 

"High Constable Lestrade. Do come in;" Mycroft greeted him, doing his best to hide his inappropriate joy and to seem neutral before the most pleasant surprise. "kettle's just boiled."

He made a gesture at one of the armchairs so that Greg would have a sit, and walked towards the center table to pour them both some tea. 

"You are very dedicated to your responsibilities." the prince started, handing Greg his cup. "No living soul should have to face the storm outside."

"I wanted to come." he admitted, yet soon realizing how wrong that could have come out. "I-I am aware of the importance of the army's official telegrams."

Mycroft smirked at the knight's hasty correction as he zipped from his cup. And they just went on talking about the weather, discussing the books they'd lent to each other, and occasionally bad-mouthing the king and trying not to giggle like the couple of teenagers they were.

"And the king is travelling again, i presume." Greg mentioned. "Important business?" 

Mycroft nodded as he went through one of the book shelves with his eyes, looking for a specific title. 

"For the time he spends away and the current condition of the Kingdom, it'd better be." the prince replied, picking up a book and checking the title. "Ah yes, 'King Edward II'."

"Is it good?"

"Terrible. But i can't seem to find my tea plate." he confessed, walking towards his armchair with the book on his hands. But halfway there he tripped on a pile of books Sherlock'd left on the floor and grabbed onto both of Greg's armrests to stop himself from falling on him - something that ended up with Mycroft hovering over Greg, their faces closer than they'd ever been allowed to get. They both stared at each other for a moment, almost holding their breath, until Greg's impulse spoke louder and he craned his neck to kiss Mycroft's lips. 

At first, astonished as he was, the prince didn't kiss him back, which made the knight pull back, look down and immediately start apologizing. 

"I-I'm sorry; I didn't- I mean, I don't- I will perfectly understand if you ask me to-" he stammered.

"High Constable Lestrade;" Mycroft called so Greg would lift his head, allowing their eyes to meet again. "I'm going to have to ask you to shut up now."

And he leaned in, returning the kiss, taking the weight out of Greg's heart and the tension away from his shoulders. And left forgotten on the floor, with its silver title reflecting the light coming from the fireplace, "King Edward II" got lost in the middle of Sherlock's books, now scattered across the carpet; I guess both brothers were accidental matchmakers.


	3. Chapter 3

The first time Greg and Mycroft kissed, it was all about the taste of something new, the thrill of the moment and the joy of newly discovered reciprocity. The last time was nothing like that. 

The moment Mycroft closed the door behind him after kicking Sherlock out and leaving him with John (completely unaware of what he had just started), he turned around to face Greg, that looked even more nervous and worried than a moment ago. The prince reluctantly walked towards him, not wanting to hear what he had to say, and stopped when they were still a bit apart from each other, each at one end of the fireplace. Greg took a breath and opened his mouth, but Mycroft was the one who spoke first. 

"You're leaving with the army tonight."

"How did you-"

"Because it's _bloody obvious_ , Greg." he snarled, a bit harsher than he expected, which made him take a moment to calm his voice. "How long will you be away? For the look on your face, I'm guessing months, maybe a year-"

He stopped talking when the knight closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, cringing at the sound of Mycroft's guess. That was when the prince realized what the big deal was all really about, and it was like the air had been punched out of his lungs. 

"You're not coming back." he mumbled, as empty as humanly possible. For someone who hardly ever showed any emotion, he felt as if his heart had shrunk out of existence. 

"It's that expedition we were talking about the other week-" Greg started explaining.

" _The suicide mission?_ "

"It's not- alright, it is." he corrected himself, when he saw that Mycroft was about to interrupt him again. "It's a suicide mission. But it's a necessary one, we discussed that."

 _Well, I didn't know it would be you in the front line facing the cannons_ , the prince thought. "You're not going." he decided. Greg, who already expected that reaction from him, sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I mean it." the other continued, walking around and starting to make tea as if nothing was going to change. "You know you can hide here. There are so many guests in this damn castle, I doubt another one won't go by unseen."

"Mycroft-"

"It's not like father will notice; he would have to actually pay attention to what happens in this place for that to happen."

"Mycroft-"

"We can forge your death, if you like. I am aware that honor matters to some people, so if we simply-"

"Mycroft-"

"WHAT?!" he raged, throwing the tray on the ground, both tea cups and the kettle shattering with a loud noise. Greg was startled at the sight of the calmest, least emotional person he had ever met snapping for the first time right in front of him. And Mycroft went from anger back to emptiness in a heartbeat as Greg walked towards him and gave him a hug.

"They need me back there." he said softly as Mycroft put his arms around him and hugged him back, clinging to him like if he held him close enough, he wouldn't have to go. "Most soldiers know where this is heading. They know what's going to happen, and the least I can do is be there with them; it's a small group, and I've fought with them for two years now, i could never just run away. And putting fellowship aside, you know what they do to the runaway soldiers' families."

"I can provide them the protection they need."

"And they would spend the rest of their days hiding. I can't do that to them."

"Oh for god's sake, Greg; why can't you just be a crappy soldier like the rest of them and accept a way out of certain death when it's being bloody handed to you on a silver platter?"

"I love you too."

Then Mycroft just buried his face on the knight's shoulder and stayed that way for a while. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. "I don't think there was ever a way out."

When they knocked on the door a second time, the prince swore to himself that someone was going to loose the privilege of their hands that day, and Greg pulled them apart just enough to face him, their chests still touching. 

"No drugging me and locking me in the closet."

"Oh please, I'm not Sherlock."

"And I wonder who he learned that from." he joked, leaning in. They kissed one last time, and in the end, neither of them wanted to let go. Mycroft didn't cry; that's not how he worked, even though it didn't mean he didn't feel pain. Greg did tear up a bit, although he hid it from the man who never cried.

Now, Mycroft was sitting next to the window, passing these and other memories in his mind, mourning as if the knight was already dead. And not even the best fireplace in the castle could lower the shivering cold in the room - Greg was gone and he'd taken away the warmth with him. The prince had just had a heavy argument with his father, trying to convince him to cancel the expedition or to send other troops, but it was all in vain. Acting against Greg's wish and putting his family in danger was never considered option - he was perhaps the only person Mycroft actually respected, and that included his decisions.

Sherlock could easily tell there was something wrong with his brother and that it was most probably because of whatever it was he had talked about earlier with Lestrade. He hoped vainly that it was nothing serious - he had grown quite affectionate towards Greg. He was the only person he had ever met (apart from maybe John now, he supposed) that didn't treat Sherlock as if everything he said was ignorable just because of his age. Even Mycroft did that to him; even though they were close, every so often he would practically put his little brother on mute. The fact that no one gave his words the merit they deserved bothered Sherlock more than it should, and Greg had been there for him when nobody else would listen. 

But Mycroft hardly ever showed when he was sick at heart, so Sherlock knew he wouldn't be seeing Greg for a while.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

John's bedroom was one of the smallest in the castle, which, for their standards, was still quite large. He was offered a bigger one, but he thought it felt too empty with only him in a wide room. There was only a bed, a nightstand and a wardrobe, with some shelves and paintings on the walls. The room was painted light blue with white clouds, and the window had a view for an enormous garden, filled with bush sculptures and colored roses. That night, John carefully placed a glass of water on the nightstand, just like he had almost religiously been doing for some time now, and went to bed.

"Hey sis." he started, staring at the high sky-painted ceiling. "Today was fun. I finally found the dungeons, so that's good. I went there with someone else, though. I hope that's okay; I know it was kind of our thing, to explore hidden parts of the castle."

He yawned and curled up on his side, closing his eyes. 

"His name is Sherlock. How different, huh? He's a bit weird - a complete show off, smarter than anyone I know, and I don't think he is used to talking to people, but he seems nice, in a way. ...I still miss you. I wish you were here, Harry." and he fell asleep, mumbling the words that no one would hear.

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

The next day, John went to the trophy room at the scheduled time to find Sherlock already there, crouched behind a marble pillar.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

But the pitch haired prince abruptly pulled him by the hand, making him sit down next to him, and covered John's mouth with his hand.

"What the hell?" the blonde tried to ask, though his voice was too muffled to be understood. But he soon heard the voices, and Sherlock lost the grip on him before John had the chance to lick his hand to make him let go.

"I don't want to go down there again! That lunatic gives me the creeps." whispered a low voice, coming from the other side of the room.

"Well, that's not my problem, is it?" a higher voice replied. "Someone's gotta feed the beast! How much longer is he going to be there anyway?"

"Until he says something. But the torture doesn't seem to be helping; I bet he'll drop dead before opening his mouth."

"What could be so important that's worth the hell that guy's been going through?"

But after that the voices got distant - the two guards were walking down the staircase. Sherlock waited a few seconds, stood up, and rushed to follow them; good thing the passage didn't close from the inside. John was right behind him, trying to be as quiet as possible as he went down the steps. They soon started to hear the voices again:

"...connected to the fire that happened on that other castle." the low voice was saying. Only that half sentence was enough to startle John. He quickly outpaced Sherlock, so he could hear them better.

"You mean the reason I have to put up with a hundred other people bossing me around? But that already happened, what does it matter now?"

"They think he could have planned that fire, and that he could be planning something else. We caught one of his old allies the other day, and he said this guy's plan was to assassinate their king."

"And did he know anything about his new plans? If they even exist?"

"We don't know. We found him dead twelve hours later."

After that they stopped talking, and the boys continued to follow them. They passed through the opened door and walked behind them across the hall, always staying out of the light coming from the guards' torches. After a while, they finally got to see the prisoner - or what was left of him. Judging by his state, the boys would doubt he could even move if it wasn't for what had happened the previous day. He was sitting huddled in a corner with his back against the wall, and his skeletal hands were covering his face. The long chains that came from the cuffs on his wrists were scattered across the cold floor, lying close to the guards' feet.

"What was his name again?" one asked.

"We only found out his last name. I don't remember it though, it was rather strange; Mor... something."

"And he never does anything?"

"Never. He just... sits there."

When he heard the voices, the prisoner slowly raised his head and stared at them, reveling a thick metal collar locked tight around his neck.

"What is that for?" John whispered, as low as he could. "It's not even attached to anything."

"I'm not sure... But i suppose it could be so he won't hang himself with the chains."

"How thoughtful." 

John must have said that a bit too loud, because one of the guards suddenly turned his head towards them.

"Did you hear that?"

 _Oh shit oh shit oh shit_ , the boys simultaneously thought, as they blindly ran back to the staircase. They bumped into the door and ran up the stairs, hearing the guard coming after them. But wet and irregular as the steps were, they tripped and fell a few times, still managing to outrun the guard. They didn't stop running when they got to the trophy room, but Sherlock fell before they got out of it. He had hurt his knee pretty bad on the stairs, and the wound was bleeding like hell - and the guard's steps were getting closer. 

"Oh, no you don't!" John said, coming back to pick Sherlock up and helping him walk away from there as fast as possible. "Exactly how many times am I going to have to carry you out of here?"

"Not the time, John." Sherlock replied, panting, as they got away from that pit of hell they had deliberately walked into. Twice.


	4. Chapter 4

"My room is not very far, come on." John said, practically carrying Sherlock across the halls. "I can fix that for you."

"Oh, that won't be necessary."

"Can you not see the trail of blood you're leaving behind?"

"I can manage on my own."

"You can barely walk on your own. God, you're stubborn."

And to John's bedroom they went. He started to look for some bandages in the wardrobe, and Sherlock sat on the corner of the bed. Only then he actually looked at the wound, and, if he hadn't dissected numerous rats and pigeons on his free time, he probably would have felt sick at the sight of the opened flesh visible through the knee of his now ruined trousers. But calm and cold as he always was when facing blood, he merely sighed in annoyance at the inconvenient injury. John was back in a heartbeat, with bandages, a piece of cloth and a bowl of water from the sink in the bathroom. He was about to kneel next to Sherlock, but the pitch haired prince took the supplies from his hands and started to clean the wound himself. The blonde let him took it, making a "as you wish" face and sitting next to him on the bed. 

"Do you think that guy really is related to the fire?" John asked, watching as Sherlock pretended to know exactly what he was doing.

"I think that was the reason he was arrested in the first place. He must have been sentenced to death, but then his ally told the guard about his 'other plans' before he was executed. So he was brought here tortured, but refused to speak a word. I honestly don't know what the fuzz is all about. The guy's not even a good terrorist; it's not like anyone actually died at that fire, anyway."

But the moment he said that, John looked away in a snap. Sherlock bent his head trying to see the blonde's face. 

"Is it? John?" But he didn't turn around. Sherlock wondered if he'd stepped over the line; he didn't have that regulator on his head that filtered inappropriate comments, so he'd constantly get offended looks from the people he spoke with, without knowing where he'd gone wrong. This time, even though there was no way he could have known, he saw he'd hit a soft spot - and he felt bad about it. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"It's okay. ...I guess it would have come up some time." John sighed, turning around. He opened his mouth to talk a few times, but a while passed before he actually said anything. "I used to share a room with my sister, on the first floor of our old castle. My other siblings barely ever talked to me, but the two of us were pretty close. At the end of the few days we didn't spend together, we'd talk about what had happened and what we had done, and... We could just tell each other anything, you know?"

He didn't know. Sherlock hadn't even dreamed about being that opened and close to someone; he wasn't even sure he'd like that. But still, he thought that John made it sound quite... Pleasing. 

"The night of the fire..." He continued. "She woke me up in the middle of the night and said she was thirsty. She asked me to get her a glass of water. At first I told her to go get it herself, but she kept asking, so eventually i went. When I was in the kitchen, I smelled something burning, coming from the first floor. I ran back to our bedroom, and started to see smoke when I went down the stairs; I first saw the fire when I got to the first floor. I have no idea how the flames spread so much and so fast, but they did. I got to see her, sleeping in her bed, as I ran to her. She... Had no idea. I was about to scream her name when the walls across the hall crumbled down. She was trapped in there. What a piece of shit of a castle, huh?" He laughed, his voice failing. "I kept running. Not sure why. But my father grabbed me from behind and picked me up, running with me to the back exit. I screamed, and I kicked and I punched, and I would do it again. And this time I would get my father to let me go and I would run back to her. I don't know what I'd do, but I would not let her die alone."

After he finished the story, there was a moment of deep silence. Sherlock was, for once in his life, speechless. He wasn't used to having people telling him anything, specially something as personal and scaring as the death of a sibling. Mostly because he was shit with advises, and he always told the truth to people who wanted to be lied to. 

"Why am I telling you this again?" John asked, and it was pretty much what Sherlock was thinking too. "I mean, I literally just met you. Yesterday."

"And we got into more trouble in two days than I had alone in months. And I blew up the kitchen last week."

John laughed a bit, and Sherlock smiled at the sight of it. It was true, though. What the hell had happened on the last 36 hours for them to be that close? Not that either of them was complaining. 

By the third time Sherlock attempted to make a decent bandage, John lost his patience. "Alright, that's it. You suck at this. Let me do it." He said, taking the rags from Sherlock's hands; the bandage was perfectly done in less than a minute, though it was time enough for the pitch haired prince to get distracted by John's blonde strands, wondering if they were as soft as they looked. 

"My mother taught me." John explained, when he saw that Sherlock was slightly surprised at a young kid's first aid abilities. "I don't think you can walk by yourself just yet, though. Come on, I'll walk you to your room." 

And he was indeed still limping, so he crossed the castle leaning once more on John's shoulder. And they talked about conspiracy theories, mad men, and whether or not there'd be pudding after dinner. 

 

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

 

When it was almost midnight and Sherlock was already sleeping for a change, light steps echoed in the quiet of the night, heading to the prince's bed. The figure leaned in and kissed his forehead, leaving behind a single tear that fell with a muffled sound on his pillow. But that wasn't the only thing that was off - the man's perfume didn't match any of the scents cataloged by Sherlock, he didn't have even the slightest stubble, and his steps were much more subtle than usual. No, it wasn't the boy's father that had returned from his trip and came to greet him with a kiss, but his brother that, aware of their little tradition, had come to his room to finish what their father couldn't. And if only Sherlock had been awake, he'd have been able to deduce his way to the not yet spoken truth, and he would've have wept and mourned that night like his brother did alone.

Mycroft had lost two of the only three people that had ever mattered to him within a range of two days, and now Sherlock was all he'd left. He hadn't cried since the day his mother passed away, a decade before, and he had definitely not missed the feeling. Everything he'd managed to keep inside about what had happened with Greg simply exploded, broke apart like the walls of a dam. And after he left Sherlock's room, he tried to keep it together at least until he had got to his own bedroom, where he leaned against the wall and slid his back until he was sitting on the cold marble floor, his throat aching from trying not to cry. 

And there he was, the seventeen year old soon-to-be-king orphan, crying for the first time in ten years, deprived from love and comfort, and weighed down by the heaviness of the world on his shoulders.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Meghan ♥ Thanks for the patience

The next day, Mycroft woke up with bags under his now swollen eyes. He looked in the mirror and cursed, wondering how he was going to approach Sherlock without him already knowing something was off. Already determined to go look for his little brother, he sighed and got dressed, thinking that now was a time as bad as any other. When he got to the closed door of Sherlock's room, he stopped for a moment, taking deep breaths and trying to pull himself together. He'd never had to do anything like that, but he was certain he sucked at softening bad news. No one had told him about his mother's death, he'd watched it happen himself, through the crack of a door. And the report about his father's passing, given by one of the guards, couldn't have been colder. But it suited him, he supposed. "The Iceman", Irene had called him. And the girl was twelve, for Pete's sake.

Before he had the chance to walk out, he forced his hand to turn the door nob and walked in, only to find an empty room. Apparently Mycroft had overslept, because Sherlock had already gone to meet with John, to see if they would solve the mystery of the prisoner once and for all. The two of them walked side by side across the hallways, as slowly and unsuspiciously as their excitement allowed, Sherlock still limping a bit. They got to the trophy room and rushed to the passage, which they found wide opened. At first it was merely strange; maybe the guards had beaten them to it again, and were already down there. But they stepped closer and saw the faded red stains on the carpet, on the floor, on the walls.

"Is that..." John began.

"What else could it be?" Sherlock replied, kneeling down to see the stains up close: they were already dried, and were in larger amounts closer to the stairs; the pattern made it look as if someone had drenched themselves with blood and it'd gradually dripped as they climbed up the stairs and walked out of the pit. There was only one type of footprint, and if it'd been one of the guards, he'd have closed the passage. The more Sherlock found out, the worse it seemed. 

"What do you think happened?" the blonde asked, stepping closer.

"I've got an idea. But you're not going to like it." he said, taking a torch and walking towards the passage.

"Wait - do you think it's safe down there?"

"Safer than up here" he answered grimly, and started to go down the stairs. 

John followed him promptly, and down they went. After a considerable number of blood stained steps, they passed through the wooden door, marked with red hands, and slowly went deeper across the dark hallway. Their steps echoed in the silent room, until John stopped walking. Sherlock noticed the lack of noise and looked back, only to enlighten to blonde's startled face with the weak torch. He looked at where John was staring at, and a few feet ahead of him lied a hand that lacked a body.

"Sherlock. Tell me that's not a severed human hand."

"You know, you can't be that soft if you want to be an army doctor."

"I- I never said that. And I'm not soft; it's a bloody hand, I'm entitled to be a bit shaken up, thank you very much." he replied and walked towards him, careful not to step on the hand. "Whose do you think it is? One of the guards'?"

"Most likely. Unless our detainee chopped his own hand off in order to get away, which would be extremely thick of him considering he'd have to cut his own head off to get rid of that metal leash. No, he got the keys from the guards, killed them and then escaped. Quite the touch, though, the severed hand. A sadistic personality disorder, perhaps? Ooh, maybe psychopathy? That'd make things more interesting. Anyway, question is: how are we going to find out who he is now, or what he did and/or planned on-"

"They're dead?" John muttered, a bit of air lacking from his lungs. 

"Oh, we're still on that?" he replied, impatient.

"Sherlock, those were innocent people."

"Yes, and now they're innocent dead people. Crying about won't bring them back." he growled, and it came out harsher than he'd expected.

John stared at him, incredulous, and stepped closer until they were less than a foot apart. 

"And satisfying your curiosity will?" he snarled. Even though Sherlock'd never admit it, those words actually stung a bit. But it wasn't as if he was going to show it.

"Does my lack of sentiment really surprise you?"

The blonde just stared into his eyes for a moment, and it was like all the respect he had for that boy had been cut in half.

"I guess not." He took the torch from his hand and started walking away.

"The exit is the other way!" Sherlock warned.

"I'm not looking for it! I'm going to find them."

"What, you think they might still be alive?" he scoffed, catching up to him.

"We won't be sure until we see them."

"Oh dear Watson, hope is merely a lie you tell yourself, increasing your expectations just so you'll face a greater disappointment at the end."

"And what the hell would _you_ know about hope?" he said, looking straight forward into darkness. They walked in silence for a bit longer before Sherlock said something.

"You're mad at me."

"Jeez, how did you manage to deduce _that_?"

"I didn't-"

"Look, if you think looking for them is a dead end, you can go. I'm not stopping y-"

But before he finished the sentence, the torch enlightened an image that would haunt both the boy's dreams that night. The body was pinned to the wall by a short sword that went through its neck, in a way that its feet didn't touch the ground. The corpse's eyes were wide opened, along with its blood-soaked mouth, and both its arms were lacking wrists; dried stains marked the walls and floor where there once was a blood waterfall pouring out of what was left of his forearms. 

John swallowed hard, his voice failing. "Alright, you were right about one of them. There's still the other one."

"The light's fading. Soon it's going to be pitch black down here." Sherlock advised, and when he saw that John was about to tell him to go somewhere very specific, he clarified: "I'm just saying we should look faster. How are we going to save the bloke if we can't see him?"

The blonde realized that that was the closest thing to an apology he'd ever get from Sherlock, and returned it with a smile. They continued walking for a few more minutes, always close to the wall, to use it as a reference in case the light went out. Then John unintentionally kicked something that was sprawled on the ground, and it grunted. He directed what was left of the light to the knocked down guard, and kneeled beside him the moment he recognized him.

"Did you hear that? He's alive, Sherlock! He's actually alive!" he exclaimed, handing the torch over to him.

"You sure sound quite surprised for someone who was so hopeful a moment ago." he replied, indifferent. John ignored him and sat the unconscious guard up.

"I think he cut his arm and hit the side of his head. Nothing too serious, but he might have had a concussion; we have to take him to the infirmary." he said, picking up the guard's upper body. "Come on, give me hand."

Sherlock sighed and picked up the man's legs, leaving the torch behind.

"We did _not_ think this through." John said when his arms were aching from slowly carrying the guard up the staircase in absolute darkness.

"What gave you that idea?" Sherlock panted.

When they finally got to the trophy room again, they closed the passage behind them and stopped for a while to catch their breaths before taking him to the infirmary. Before turning each corner, they would stop and check to see if there was anyone coming. Gladly, they only came across old maid Ms Hudson, that was blind enough to think that the bloody body the two boys were carrying around was nothing but a large dog.

"Are you boys sure you don't want some tea? I was just on my way to the kitchen - I could get some biscuits for your dog as well."

"No, thank you, Ms Hudson." they answered in unison and rushed to keep walking before she noticed something. If she hadn't grown on the entire Holmes family, she would have certainly been laid off decades ago. But she really was the sweetest housekeeper anyone could ask for. 

When they got close to the infirmary, Sherlock gestured with his head indicating John to put the guard on the floor for a moment.

"Okay, we need a plan. I was thinking that maybe one of us could take some blood from the guard's arm and pretend to-"

But John had already taken a slingshot and a small rock from his pockets, and was taking aim at one of the oil lamps on the far opposite wall. He hit his target with military precision, then took aim of another one, and struck it as well. There was some agitated talking and rapid steps coming from the nursery; John dragged the guard to the middle of the hall as fast as he could and ran to the opposite direction, taking Sherlock's hand and dragging him along.

"Alright, I suppose that works." the pitch-haired prince commented, feeling the blood go up to his face and hoping John wouldn't see it. His heart was beating rapidly, and it wasn't just the adrenaline. When they thought they'd ran far enough, they stopped and leaned their backs against a wall, panting. 

"So... He's out." John started, after he'd caught his breath.

"Yes."

"Are we going to do anything about it?"

"I was thinking about leaving that to the guard that's about to recover his senses. He'll certainly report the facts to my father as soon as he can."

"Our job is done, then? I don't feel like we've done much."

" _You_ saved a life." Sherlock said, looking down. "I have kept myself from being bored for some solid 72 hours, so that's a win."

"Hey. You saved him too." John pointed out, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder for a second. "It doesn't feel over, though. I guess I'll feel safer when they actually catch the bloke. You'll keep me informed, right?" he asked, leaning a bit to the side so that their arms were touching, and looking into the prince's bright blue eyes.

"At all times." Sherlock answered, as if making a promise.

They then went on separate ways again, knowing they would have each other to come back to whenever they needed. And it was quite a nice feeling.

 

.  
.  
.

 

Mycroft cringed behind his book when Sherlock stepped into the library later that day. 

"I was told you wanted to speak to me." the kid started.

"Yes." he confirmed, putting the book down. "Have a sit."

"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked as he sat on the arm chair that was once occupied by Greg. But he already knew the answer - Mycroft was letting his nerves show. 

"You are aware" he started, after clearing his throat. "Of our father's most recent travel to the neighboring lands, yes?"

"I've been informed." Sherlock said, growing suspicious. He had an idea of what his brother was going to say, but god, let him be wrong, just this once.

"A guard reported to me yesterday that there'd been an accident-"

_No, please don't._

"-when he was still heading to Westhington-"

_Stop, just stop, I don't want to hear it._

"-one of the lamps fell down and broke, the fire spread-"

_Please..._

"-the silliest thing." he smiled just for a second, emptily. "He's dead."

And in a fraction of a second, the last thread of rope that was holding Sherlock together snapped, interrupting the atheist's prayer and causing him to gasp so subtly that his brother barely noticed. And Mycroft waited for an answer, a reaction, but Sherlock remained with the same posture and let out nothing but a blank "Oh."

A while more passed in silence, both of them still processing everything. 

"The funeral will be in three days." the elder continued. "I expect you to attend regardless of your wish not to; it would be nothing more than your responsibility."

More silence. Sherlock hadn't shown barely any emotion, and Mycroft wasn't sure whether he feared or was glad that his little brother had his same lack of sensitivity. He nodded and returned to his book; Sherlock took that as a "you can go now", so he got up and left without saying a word. 

A million thoughts ran around his mind as he rushed across the hallways, mechanically walking towards his room. Why wasn't he crying? Was there something wrong with him? Had he not processed everything yet, did he need time to start believing in it? His father was dead. Wasn't he supposed to mourn? Yes, he'd feared this might happen and yes, he wished it weren't true, but he felt cold at heart for not weeping like a child normally would in such a situation. He should have accepted by now that normal was a concept far from his nature, but he feared that maybe, just maybe, he'd pretended not to feel anything for so long that it'd started to become true. 

 

.  
.  
.

 

That night, he had his first nightmare in years. Sherlock had had many dreams about his mother - or at least about the painting of her that hung on the wall of his father's room - but they weren't neither good or bad, just neutral. She never moved, never smiled, never blinked. The only difference between her and the portrait was that she didn't have a frame around her.

And this dream began the same way. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, looking at her, and the scenario around them was one of the halls in the castle, though every single thing was plain white. He was wondering whether or not she would move this time when everything glitched. For a fraction of a second, everything was stained red with blood and his mother's neck was bent roughly to the side as if broken, as a deafening high-pitched noise caused the floor the pulse. Even though it was all during a blink of an eye, Sherlock slowly stood up and stepped closer to his mother - it happened again. Every time, it would all glitch into the red hell and go back to the white dream faster than the boy could process. 

But when he took the third step, a scenario was formed around him, of a green meadow, and his mother's neck was no longer bent. She'd turned her back at him and was facing a cliff now. He stared at the scene for a long time - she'd _never_ moved before. He wasn't surprised when she turned her head to face him, smiling leisurely as he walked towards her, tough he never got any closer. 

Without realizing nor questioning it (he was, after all, in a dream), Sherlock was now holding a shotgun and aiming it at her, without the faintest control over his body. She continued to smile, almost laughing, as he took aim. He screamed for her to get out of the way, to run, but she wasn't reacting to it at all. The whole scene of her smiling, the blue sky, the vivid grass and the mild breeze was disturbingly cheerful. He shouted his lungs out, almost crying, and pulled the trigger. The moment the bullet hit her chest, the green meadow went back to the red hell, the noise louder than ever, and this time, it didn't stop. Her body was pushed back by the impact and she fell down the cliff, which closed in the second she got out of his sight. 

He regained control of his arms and let go of the gun as if it was on fire, breathing rapidly like there was lack of oxygen in the room. He turned around again and again, looking for something other than blood stains, until everything went black and the noise stopped completely. All he heard was a loud, psychotic laugh, and he woke up and sat up in a snap. He wasn't breathing heavily or sweating, and everything was absolutely normal. Apart, of course, from the blonde by his door, reluctant in whether to come in or not. 

"Sherlock?" he whispered, taking a step forward. "Did I wake you up?"

"No, I... I wasn't sleeping." he said as he rubbed his eye with one hand.

"...I can't sleep. Do you mind if I..." and he gestured towards Sherlock's bed. 

He didn't answer, but scooted over and covered himself with the blankets, laying back down. John climbed in the bed and lied as close to the corner as he could, as if to respect Sherlock's personal space. He covered himself too, and waited a while before whispering an almost ashamed "thanks" and closing his eyes.


End file.
